


Danse Macabre

by mishmish



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Still Have Powers, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Charles You Will Be Drunk, Ghosts, M/M, On Hiatus, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-24
Updated: 2014-09-05
Packaged: 2018-02-14 10:53:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2189016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mishmish/pseuds/mishmish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Charles is a mutant, a homosexual, and most importantly, a man of science with a very important academic career and no patience for ghosts or other such nonsense. He believes in things that he can see, touch, and feel for himself. As far as he is concerned ghosts are, quite simply, fiction. </p>
<p>Pranksters at seances, on the other hand, are very much real.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first fanfic I'm publishing, ever, because I got it in my head and it wouldn't let go until I got it on a page. So, hi everyone, nice to meet you. This story is unbetaed and minimally edited, so all mistakes are mine. Rating will probably get bumped up within a few chapters; warnings will be added if they become necessary. Hope you enjoy!

The parlor was tomblike in stillness and silence. The only light and movement came from the candle centered on the table, the tiny beacon that kept the room from being tomblike in darkness, as well. The small but tenacious flame cast long shadows that twitched on the pale faces of those seated around the table. All in attendance refrained from moving or speaking but the air thrummed with their excitement and anticipation, topped off with a healthy dose of fear. It was as though the deathly silence of the room would usher in the dead themselves, accustomed to the darkness and stillness of their graves as they were. It was as though the living were immersing themselves in the silent, cold realm of the dead by approximating it in this parlor. It was as though the conditions were such that at any moment, the planes of the living and the dead would converge at that very table. 

It was utter bollocks.

What a waste of a fine, crisp October day, Charles thought, to be sitting around a depressing little table with his mother, along with some friends of hers, some neighbors, and a couple of fraudsters conducting a seance. A seance, of all things to be doing. Charles, as a man of science, refused to be seduced by such silliness. He was, after all, a contemporary of Charles Darwin.

Well, perhaps he was a bit too young to be considered a contemporary of Darwin, strictly speaking, if he was being honest. He had only been a child when Darwin's great book on the mechanism of evolution was published, but little Charles had delighted to hear his father speak of biology and natural history. Other children might have asked to hear bedtime stories about dragons and fairies, but Charles loved to hear stories of the great fossil lizards and Neanderthal man, and had always dreamed of the day he might take his place at Oxford to continue the onward march of scientific discovery. There was an elegance to the natural world that made the pretense of the supernatural seem vulgar by comparison. So how tedious it was to return home from Oxford for a weekend to help his mother entertain guests, not with talk of Mendel’s rather underappreciated work or even the poetry of Tennyson, but with this farce. 

He played along with these fancies for the sake of being a good sport, of course. But if sport was all it was, perhaps he could use his abilities to make it a bit more entertaining. On his own time he had been working on using his powers without his hands. Would a seance not be the opportune moment to put his newly practiced skills to the test? Entering someone's mind to speak through them might be amusing. He would see to it that his subject would remember nothing of what happened, but the fraudsters would get a well-deserved shock when confronted with a phenomenon they themselves had not orchestrated, and it would be a wonderful show for the rest of the attendees. 

Or perhaps he could go directly into the mind of the so-called medium. He would assure her that he, the seemingly vengeful spirit, meant her no true harm, but instead he might demand some absurd task to make amends for the lies she had perpetrated. He could ask her to sing her best Isolde, then sit back and enjoy the caterwauling. He suppressed a chuckle at the thought and began preparing a script in his mind. The more outlandish his story, the more hilarious the reaction would be. Perhaps he would begin with some Shakespeare. He could play the role of the elder Hamlet, line for line, and see if she caught on. She seemed an intelligent woman, even if she was a charlatan; Charles was confident she would see the joke, if she could keep her wits about her. 

His musings ground to a halt when the candlestick at the center of the table began to levitate.

Charles blinked. Well, that was different.

The medium's invocations faltered, but she intoned, as steadily as she could manage, "The spirit is with us today!" Charles stared at the candlestick, baffled. No strings that he could see. Perhaps a very strong magnet? But where, and wielded by whom? Not the medium, he could tell that much. He glanced around the table. All eyes were fixed on the candlestick, most with awe and a few with fear, but one pair was fixed a bit more intently than the rest. 

Erik Lehnsherr stared at the candlestick with a look of supreme concentration and a well-nigh imperceptible mischievous quirk of the lips. 

Impressive. Very, very impressive. Charles suppressed the urge to cry out “Ha!” aloud. Perhaps his newly cultivated hands-free powers could be better used by reaching out to this newly-discovered kindred spirit: "Hullo, is that you?" 

The candlestick fell to the table with a clatter, teetering precariously but settling upright, the flame flickering before making a robust recovery. Lehnsherr had gone pale, his eyes darting from face to face. "No, no, don't stop, that was brilliant! It's just me. Charles - er, Master Xavier. Hello. Over here, across the table?" Amid the chaos and murmur of the shaken attendees, Lehnsherr's eyes found his. Charles bit down an inappropriate grin that was threatening to spread across his face. He could hear that Lehnsherr was wondering how it was that Charles could speak to him inside his head. "Quite easily, I can explain another time. What else can you make move?" 

Erik smirked. Charles suddenly caught a bit of a thought that he wasn't sure he was meant to overhear - "your bed?" - and blushed at the thought, which came with the unbidden image of a wrought iron headboard slamming against the wall, his own hands clutching its bars. Charles' pants suddenly felt a bit more snug, and he was uncomfortably aware of the ladies' hands he was holding. While Lehnsherr was a handsome man, and Charles had a weakness for handsome men, he was certain this particular image was not of his own making. So he and Erik, the rogue, had that in common as well. 

The chandelier overhead began to rattle, little shimmies escalating into rapid metallic din. Everyone around the table gasped and oohed and stared at the chandelier in awe, which meant Charles did not have to worry about distracting them from his and Erik's silent communication, which their unyielding eye contact might otherwise betray. 

"Brilliant. Are you telekinetic? Is that how you can do that?"

"I can move metal. And I must say that if I had the ability to get into people's minds, I would put it to far more interesting use during a seance."

"Great minds, my friend. I was just wondering what mischief I should cause. Perhaps you can advise. I was thinking perhaps I should pretend to be a spirit and chide the medium for her falseness - and I do know she's false, I can tell these things. What do you think?" 

"Oh, please, do." The chandelier halted. The other participants lowered their amazed stares to level with one another's, confirming that they had all seen the same thing. The medium looked particularly shaken, and her mouth opened and closed several times before she recovered.

"Great spirit." She skillfully harnessed the uncontrollable tremor in her voice for dramatic effect. Charles had to admit her flair for theater was impressive. Only he and Erik knew that the tremor was caused by real trepidation, not by any great effort she had expended to conjure a spirit. "You who have made your presence known to us. Speak to us... speak..." Charles almost pitied her. He cast a discreet wink in Erik's direction. 

"What to do next, Erik?" 

"Tell her you're the ghost of Richard III, prepared to reveal the fate of your nephews." 

"Delightful thought. Or, I was thinking I could play the part of Prince Albert. I could describe the Queen's predilections in salacious detail." 

"Predilections of what sort, you treasonous scoundrel?" Erik was having difficulty suppressing his mischievous grin. The look on his face made Charles’ heart beat a little faster. 

"Shall I make her tell you?"

"God, yes." 

Charles took a deep breath and turned his focus to the medium, who had commenced a low chanting in some guttural language that Charles so strongly suspected was fake that he did not deign to use his powers to confirm his suspicions. 

"Who dares disturb my eternal rest?" he thundered, silent to all but his unfortunate target, who gasped and sprang back from the table, clutching her ample bosom.

"I - I don't understand - " Attendees began to exchange nervous glances once again. Charles felt his neighbor’s grip on his own left hand constrict. She hid it well, but sitting beside her, he could feel her fear as easily as he could feel ambient heat from a furnace. 

"How many spirits have spoken to you? Speak true. I will know if you are false."

"I... I have never had a spirit speak directly in my mind." Gasps and murmurs arose from the enraptured audience. "I implore you, friends, close your eyes and focus your energy! We have made contact and we must maintain a pathway for this spirit to communicate with us! Never before have I heard the words of the dead so clearly!"

Charles gave a quick glance around the table. The delight he took in toying with the medium wilted when he saw his mother's glistening eyes, fixed on the chandelier. Heedless of the medium's admonition to focus, she let her hope shine plainly through her upturned face. 

Charles never had to avail himself of his abilities to understand his mother. Shame dropped over him, as heavy as the light-blocking drapes over the windows. He wet his lips, considering, before taking a breath and turning his attention back to the medium. 

"Tell all who are gathered that the late master of the house wishes to send his regards, and that he often sees his wife, the woman seated directly opposite you. Tell her he always remembers her in the blue gown she wore when they attended the opera in London." 

As the medium repeated his message, eliciting gasps and sniffles and a sob or two from the group, Charles met Erik’s eyes again. They were soft with concern. 

"I'm sorry. I cannot do this." 

"Are you all right?"

"I can explain later. Not now, my friend." 

“Spirit!” cried the medium. “Spirit, what more have you to tell us?” Charles pursed his lips and blinked back the moisture that prickled at his eyes.

“Charles, are you all right?” 

“Yes, I am.” He smiled a watery smile at Erik as the medium announced that the spirit had left them and their conjuring was done. 

When the conductors of the seance snuffed out the candle and open the curtains, the attendees rose one by one until the only person left seated was Charles' mother, staring sullenly at a spot of table in front of her. The next door neighbor Mrs. Beaton, seasoned hostess and gentlewoman that she was, took notice of her state and began to usher the crowd into the tea room as Erik sidled up to Charles. 

Charles wanted to reach out and touch his mother's face. Instead, he turned to Erik. "Another time, perhaps," he murmured. Erik considered him for a moment before nodding. 

"Another time." Erik placed a light hand on Charles' elbow and steered him to the door. "But I did very much enjoy chatting. Care to resume over a brandy this evening?"


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My (tentative, ambitious) goal is to update once a week or so. Since I'm such a total n00b at this I would love to hear some feedback. Cheers!

In contrast to the contrived gloom of the midday parlor and the practiced elegance of dinner, the evening sitting room was bright and warm from the crackling fireplace, to say nothing of the brandy and the somewhat more limited company. A chessboard, stage for a close but amicable game, put respectable space between Charles and Erik. Respectable, damnable space, much to Charles’ chagrin. 

“I must say,” Charles laughed, “when the candlestick moved I thought she would faint on the spot. Do you suppose the charlatans ever play tricks on each other like that? Is that why she seemed hardly ruffled?” 

“To say nothing of when she heard you!” Erik crowed. “Truly I admire her composure - it was something of a nasty shock to hear a voice, not mine, in my mind. Imagine in hers. Oh, it was a brilliant trick! A brilliant one - but a shock, that’s all.” 

Charles’ laughter abated. "Tell me, Erik." Charles' words were just barely slurred with drink. Erik's cheeks were flushed with the same. "How long have you known you were different?"

"You mean how long have I known I was a mutant, or how long have I known I was an invert?"

"Both. Either. I'll tell you mine if you tell me yours." He raised an eyebrow and cocked his head in a way he hoped was charming. 

"Tell me first why you won't just read my mind.” Erik tilted his head and grinned, roguish and challenging. “That’s not an invitation to do so, mind." 

Charles' smile dimmed. "Do you think I make a habit of that?"

"You reserve the mind-reading for charlatans, then?"

Charles wet his lips. "Well - I often use my abilities, but in ways that are not... overly invasive." 

"Your mother's blue dress?"

Charles looked down at the chess board. "It is your move, you know." 

"You are more interesting than chess." 

"My mother always hopes that these things will bring words from my father." Charles was suddenly rather exhausted. Blame the drink, he thought. "The moving metal, it was unlike anything she had ever seen these frauds do before. It seemed cruel to raise her hope only to crush it. I thought it would be a kindness to share something my father alone would know, to put her heart at ease."

"But your father alone would not know her dearest memory. You would know as well, if you wished. She could just as well deduce that you were the one responsible. Is she aware of your gift?" 

"She is aware." Charles yawned. "You may have tired of playing, but I tire of speaking. Shall we resume or shall we retire?"

"No need to retire." Erik leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees and his fingers tented beneath his chin. "If I am prying, I do beg your pardon. I do not mean to scold you."

"Very well. I shall move for you." Charles reached across the board and moved a rook, then just as quickly took it out with his own pawn. He sat back and crossed his arms over his chest. "Your move again." 

Erik's eyes lingered on his with soft regard. "All right," he said at last. He looked down at the board. "My move." His fingers extended and hovered over a knight for a moment, then withdrew. "If I upset you, forgive me. It was not my intention."

"You haven't," Charles lied. It wasn’t Erik’s fault that he had, anyhow; he was not the telepath of the two, he could not know what he’d stir with his questions. Charles reached for his drink and took a lusty swig. "More brandy?" 

"Please." As Charles rose, Erik moved a bishop, collecting a knight. 

"Tell me about yourself, Erik. We have said quite enough about me. We have seen each other before in passing, but I’m afraid with my being away at Oxford for so much of the year we have never had the pleasure of becoming acquainted. I’d rather like to know you better."

"What do you know about me already?"

"What, do you think I took liberties?" Charles tried not to read too much into the moment of silence that followed. 

"I meant no such thing." 

Charles set the refilled glass before Erik and flopped back into his seat with his own glass in hand, the brandy sloshing precariously close to the rim. He took a sip, considering. “I know you are a mutant, and an invert, and I know you are from the continent, though I don’t know where. You take pride in your abilities, and you have a wicked sense of humor.” Another sip. “What else is there to know?”

“Correct on all counts. I am from Germany, though I haven’t been in many years. I was born there and lived there for the better part of my childhood, but my abilities got me into some trouble, I’m afraid, and attracted some unwanted attention, and so my mother sent me to be fostered with a cousin here in England the summer before I turned twelve years. I no longer live with my cousin, and I’ve no reason to return to Germany, and so here I am.” 

"Do I know your cousin?" 

"Unlikely. It is your turn, is it not?"

"Is it? I thought it was yours." 

"I took your knight."

"Regardless." Charles brushed a lock of hair out of his eyes. Erik's eyes followed the movement as his fingertips glided in lazy circles along the rim of his glass. They regarded each other across the board for a moment. "Sometimes if I indulge too much my control slips and I can hear things without meaning to," Charles confessed, apropos of nothing. 

“Can you?” Erik shifted in his seat and lifted his glass to his half-curved lips. "Like now?"

"I can tell what you're thinking, yes." Charles arched his back and let his head loll against the chair. "You have many stories to tell and you’re pleased to have a companion you feel you can share them with, but you haven't the energy to tell them tonight. You hope I cannot tell that you were looking at my arse when we left the parlor after the seance - " Erik sputtered on a mouthful of drink - "and that you appreciated it, you wanton scoundrel, you, or that you also appreciate the color of my eyes."

"You are an articulate drunk."

"I'm hardly drunk!" Charles protested. "I am only slightly affected."

"Affected enough to slacken your control and loosen your lips but not to addle your mind, is that it?"

"Quite right, my friend. As I was saying, you appreciate the color of my eyes and the way that the drink colors my cheeks, and you would very much like to kiss me, among other things. You may, if you like."

Erik quirked an eyebrow. "Does the drink make you forward, or do you always have such cheek?" 

"I could see what you were thinking about me when I reached out to you about the candlestick. I want it too. I may not have the breadth of experience you have with such things, but I - and - “ Erik’s eyes widened. “ - oh, do pardon me, Erik. As I said, my control slips a bit when I drink. I did not mean to intrude again." 

"Then perhaps it is time to retire," Erik said, not unkindly. He rose and leaned over the board, hands settling on either armrest. He brushed the tip of his nose against Charles', then leaned forward and pressed a chaste, momentary kiss to Charles' mouth. "Good night." 

“Good night,” Charles mumbled. Later he’d wish he’d said something devastating, something to leave Erik yearning for him all night, or to keep him from leaving at all. But in the moment he could only stare in a daze as Erik straightened to take his leave, smiling all the while. 

\---

The bedroom spun a little when Charles entered. All he could think about was Erik's voice, Erik's fingers, Erik's mind. It would be so pleasant to fall asleep musing on Erik, the fellow mutant and fellow invert who reciprocated Charles' desire. That was a dazzling thought indeed, one that brought a heated thrill to his core. But there was quite a bit else about Erik besides, an air of mystery, secrets that Charles wanted to know. The anticipation of learning it all warmed him; it would rock him to sleep that night. 

"Did you think I wouldn't know it was you?” Charles whirled, his heart jumping. Sharon rose from the chair in the corner where she had apparently been waiting. 

"A - a what? I - " She must have been waiting the entire evening, he realized. She curled her lip at him when she smelled the drink. Charles wildly ran through the events of the evening, through each moment that might have aroused her contempt and making sure there was no possible way she could have found out about him and Erik - that his powers would have alerted him had she been in their vicinity - yet under her flinty stare he was sure that she already knew, or she might as well have, and she was admonishing him as much for what he was as for what he’d done. Charles had no defense against that. 

"Did you think I wouldn’t know? I know as well as you that spirits are not real.” She wet her lips, eyes hard and steady. “You've always thought yourself so clever. If your father had known that your childish insolence would grow into such arrogance - " 

"Mother, please." He held up his hands and shook his head, dizzying himself. "Forgive me. I only meant - "

"Spare me,” she hissed. His eyes flickered to the floor. 

She brushed past him in her long, brisk strides to the door, not sparing him a backward glance as she pulled the door shut with a decisive click. Charles sank onto the edge of his bed. 

He thought about going to Erik, then dashed the thought from his mind as soon as it had come. Instead, without bothering to undress or lift the covers, he lay back and closed his eyes, drawing deep, steadying breaths. Sleep came for him shortly thereafter.

**Author's Note:**

> This was meant to be a quick one-shot meet-cute type deal, but I have a few draft chapters lined up, so, um, we'll see where this goes. If anyone is interested in betaing future chapters or works, drop me a line. Cheers!


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